[Koby's turning, shoulders scrunched up towards his ears, about to argue more -- because of course he is -- when Mihawk tears the shirt. A soft, stricken sound escapes him, embarrassing in how genuine the stab of grief is. It's just a shirt. There are more important things. He could've been killed, would've been if not for Mihawk, and if he doesn't wrap up his wounds, they could get infected. That's just basic first aid.

But still -- the uniform still means something to Koby, even with all he's learned, all the disillusionment of the past few months. He swallows tightly, gritting his teeth against the repeated, humiliating urge to cry. Later, maybe. Later, when he's alone.

The injured arm uncrosses, but the other stays firmly across Koby's chest. He's still too thin, he knows, collarbone sharp, the curve of his ribs easily visible through the thin fabric of the undershirt.] I don't think preferring real bandages to a bottle of wine poured over an injury makes us spoiled.

...except you'd probably never waste wine, would you? [He'd cleaned up after Garp's post-Mihawk temper tantrum. There had been multiple shattered wine glasses -- which was par for the course. Mihawk would prefer wine to something more plebian, like beer.]